On the train from central London into Wembley a well-refreshed Scotland fan
turned out as Rab C Nesbitt (though, in truth, it may not have been fancy
dress) was succinct in his prediction.

“Aye, we’ll win this one,” he said. “See, these lot aren’t very good.” Except he used an observation somewhat stronger than that.

If ITV are looking for another pundit to add to their growing roster, they could do worse than invite him into Adrian Chiles’s box. He was right: in comparison to the leading nations of Europe, England were not very good.

But then, neither were Scotland. And in their mutually assured mediocrity, the two sides produced a cracker of a match, a game of energy and enthusiasm that mocked the standard expectation of the friendly. Five goals and a winner greeted by its scorer with a grin as wide as the Solent: what an uplifting way to start the new season.

For the first 20 minutes last night, the Nesbitt-alike must have been chortling to the very extremities of his string vest. Scotland were in control, looking at ease, dominant. How the 20,000 fans in tartan and blue were noisily enjoying their return to the old enemy’s headquarters. And when Kenny Miller ripped a shot past Joe Hart to score a second early in the second half, they were eyeing up the crossbars at both ends in readiness for an old-school celebration. For a moment it threatened to be just like 1977 all over again.

This was the 111th meeting between the two oldest international foes in the game. It has, however, been a long time since Scotland were last at Wembley. Trafalgar Square’s fountains have been entirely free of tartan since 1999. And how things have changed since then. Not just in the surroundings, these days things are all slick, sleek and it costs more than the gross domestic product of Glasgow for a burger and a beer. But also in the personnel down on the pitch.

Before the game began, as the Coldstream Guards and the pipe-pumping colleagues readied themselves to deliver the notes, the public address announcer asked for the crowd to respect the national anthems. Trouble was nobody could hear him: everyone was already booing in anticipation.

It was, however, in the reaction to the announcement of the two teams that the real difference from the old days was evident. The Scots fans raised their booing to drown out the name Wayne Rooney, but when the Scotland team was read out, the noise from the England sections was no more than a low-level grumble. There were no particular hate figures to grouse at. No bogey men. In fact, there were not many in blue they had heard of. If England’s resources have been compromised by the Premier League’s infatuation with all things foreign, here was clear evidence that Scotland’s have been horribly denuded.

In the past, the tartan core was made up of the best of Liverpool, Manchester United and Tottenham. Now Scotland come to Wembley with a Blackburn centre-back, the Wigan playmaker and a full-back reckoned surplus to Aston Villa’s requirements.

Not that it seemed to matter. Even with their mix of Championship and Scottish Premiership, Scotland carried sufficient threat constantly to discomfit their more gilded neighbours.

When James Morrison – the only member of the starting line-up likely to feature in the Premier League season – slammed the ball past Joe Hart in the 12th minute, in the stands they must have thought they had overdosed on the happy juice.

Indeed, it was a goal which in many ways subverted the old assumptions about the two sides. A Scot produced the Bobby Charlton-like thunderbolt, and an English keeper displayed the hapless catching of a comedy juggler from an Edinburgh Festival side show.

In truth, Hart should easily have dealt with Morrison’s effort. It was heading straight into his hands. Instead he tamely patted it into the corner of the net. And thus was Wembley presented with further evidence of the Manchester City man’s unhappy shortage of form. Once Hart was head and shoulders above his peers. Now he plays as if his gloves are filled with dandruff.